think you’re doing?” With a panicked shift, he slammed his back against the passenger door to gain some extra inches from her body, her breath, her soft mouth. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Kissing it to make it better,” she said, pulling her own paper cup from the container as if she didn’t notice his alarmed posture. “Didn’t anyone ever do that for you? Didn’t you ever kiss Maddie’s little hurts?”
Maddie.
Inside him, everything went quiet.
When was the last time someone had said her name aloud? Who would speak it to him? Her mother was dead, too. And he supposed Lynn’s parents would find it too painful to call him up and talk about her. Maddie’s other grandparents—his own mother and father—had given up on him before he’d left San Francisco for Malibu. Perhaps they’d not given up on him, precisely, but they’d stopped trying to get him to answer his doorbell or his telephone or their e-mails.
“Maddie . . .” He tried the name out. When was the last time he’d said it aloud himself? Probably when he’d had to make those horrible, terrible, can’t-think-about-them-without-wanting-to-get-drunk calls to Maddie’s two sets of grandparents.
“Your daughter,” Cassandra confirmed, as if he could have forgotten. “I thought I saw a picture of her in your wallet the other night. Would you show it to me?”
The other night . . . His spine pressed painfully into the door’s handle. He still had an infuriating hole in his memory bank about that other night . . . and he remembered much too much about another night, that night on her couch, when Cassandra had almost bewitched him into losing his cool. He’d wanted so much to sink inside that heat he’d felt between her thighs.
“Gabe?” She was looking over her cup at him with those bluer-than-blue eyes, the ones that could send out a spell with just a flutter of her lashes. “The photo?”
Like always, her magic worked, and he found himself slipping his coffee into a plastic holder hanging from the dash and then reaching into his right front pocket. His wallet fell open to the picture of Lynn and Maddie. He quickly flipped the clear sleeve, unwilling to meet the eyes of his dead wife, which he always avoided in case the smiling gaze had turned accusing. From behind it, he pulled another photo free. This one was of him and Maddie. She’d been . . . three? He carried her piggyback and she had her chin propped on his shoulder as she mugged for the camera.
Offering it to Cassandra, he had the sudden urge to hide it away, but she already had her mitts on it, and he found himself letting go.
As she studied it, he felt the weight of his daughter pressing onto his back, much heavier than it had been that day, her legs digging into his ribs, her hands in a strangle-hold around his neck. He couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t breathe.
“You both look happy.” Cassandra looked up. “Very happy.”
Happy. Very happy , said his neighbor who had never had a father to carry her like that, Gabe realized. Cassandra had never grinned for the camera from behind her daddy’s back. At the thought, he could breathe again, the strangling weight he’d felt vanishing, leaving only a lingering ache in his throat. He glanced at the photo and felt his lips curve. “Yeah. That day we were very happy.”
Cassandra continued to study it. “Maddie. Madelyn . . . what?”
“Madelyn Rosemary.”
His neighbor snickered. “Gabe. You named your daughter after something green. Who would have thunk it?”
He was obliged to frown at her. “We named her after my mother .”
“Still green.”
“What’s your middle name?” he asked. “No, wait. Let me guess. Thyme. Tofu. Bamboo Shoots. Wheat Grass.”
She laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. The fragrance of her shampoo infused the air, but it was too late for him to shut down his lungs. It invaded his chest, his nose, his head. He grabbed up his coffee.
“No middle
“Kissing it to make it better,” she said, pulling her own paper cup from the container as if she didn’t notice his alarmed posture. “Didn’t anyone ever do that for you? Didn’t you ever kiss Maddie’s little hurts?”
Maddie.
Inside him, everything went quiet.
When was the last time someone had said her name aloud? Who would speak it to him? Her mother was dead, too. And he supposed Lynn’s parents would find it too painful to call him up and talk about her. Maddie’s other grandparents—his own mother and father—had given up on him before he’d left San Francisco for Malibu. Perhaps they’d not given up on him, precisely, but they’d stopped trying to get him to answer his doorbell or his telephone or their e-mails.
“Maddie . . .” He tried the name out. When was the last time he’d said it aloud himself? Probably when he’d had to make those horrible, terrible, can’t-think-about-them-without-wanting-to-get-drunk calls to Maddie’s two sets of grandparents.
“Your daughter,” Cassandra confirmed, as if he could have forgotten. “I thought I saw a picture of her in your wallet the other night. Would you show it to me?”
The other night . . . His spine pressed painfully into the door’s handle. He still had an infuriating hole in his memory bank about that other night . . . and he remembered much too much about another night, that night on her couch, when Cassandra had almost bewitched him into losing his cool. He’d wanted so much to sink inside that heat he’d felt between her thighs.
“Gabe?” She was looking over her cup at him with those bluer-than-blue eyes, the ones that could send out a spell with just a flutter of her lashes. “The photo?”
Like always, her magic worked, and he found himself slipping his coffee into a plastic holder hanging from the dash and then reaching into his right front pocket. His wallet fell open to the picture of Lynn and Maddie. He quickly flipped the clear sleeve, unwilling to meet the eyes of his dead wife, which he always avoided in case the smiling gaze had turned accusing. From behind it, he pulled another photo free. This one was of him and Maddie. She’d been . . . three? He carried her piggyback and she had her chin propped on his shoulder as she mugged for the camera.
Offering it to Cassandra, he had the sudden urge to hide it away, but she already had her mitts on it, and he found himself letting go.
As she studied it, he felt the weight of his daughter pressing onto his back, much heavier than it had been that day, her legs digging into his ribs, her hands in a strangle-hold around his neck. He couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t breathe.
“You both look happy.” Cassandra looked up. “Very happy.”
Happy. Very happy , said his neighbor who had never had a father to carry her like that, Gabe realized. Cassandra had never grinned for the camera from behind her daddy’s back. At the thought, he could breathe again, the strangling weight he’d felt vanishing, leaving only a lingering ache in his throat. He glanced at the photo and felt his lips curve. “Yeah. That day we were very happy.”
Cassandra continued to study it. “Maddie. Madelyn . . . what?”
“Madelyn Rosemary.”
His neighbor snickered. “Gabe. You named your daughter after something green. Who would have thunk it?”
He was obliged to frown at her. “We named her after my mother .”
“Still green.”
“What’s your middle name?” he asked. “No, wait. Let me guess. Thyme. Tofu. Bamboo Shoots. Wheat Grass.”
She laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. The fragrance of her shampoo infused the air, but it was too late for him to shut down his lungs. It invaded his chest, his nose, his head. He grabbed up his coffee.
“No middle
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